Kyson comes back a few minutes later with a spoon and a bottle of honey. “Open,” he commands. I look at him, confused. “You said you can’t take tablets. I Googled how to make it easier. Honey and crushed tablets work, so open.” I do as he says, and he slides the spoon into my mouth, then he pulls it back out, and I swallow. He hands me the water, and I manage to take a sip before he takes it away. “I have to work, so roll back over,” he instructs me.
“You can go to work. I need to pee,” I inform him.
“How do you expect to do that? You can hardly move as it is,” he grumbles, and I hide the smile that wants to appear as he looks me up and down.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Fucking hell,” he mutters again.
“That must be your favorite phrase,” I tease.
“Only with you,” he says. Then he moves to the other side of the bed, and I feel him remove the sheet and place his hands under my knees. “Lift slightly, I’m turning you.” I do as he says so my back won’t get dragged against the mattress. When my legs are dangling from the bed, he reaches over me, ignoring my still-exposed tits. Instead, he places a hand behind my head and gently helps me up without touching my back but relieving all the pressure from it at the same time.
“You should put on a nurse’s outfit… It would look cute.”
“I can drop you,” he utters, and I can’t help the small laugh that leaves me. But I regret it right away because it hurts, and I stop to wince. “Just shut the fuck up,” he says, offering me his arm. “And stand so you can piss, and I can leave. You stink of alcohol.”
“I’d like a sponge bath if you’re offering.”
“And I’d like you to suck my cock just so you’ll shut up, but hey, this is where we’re at.”
“Maybe when I’m better, but only if it’s pretty. Some men have really ugly dicks.”
He mutters something under his breath, and I don’t pay him attention as we hobble to the bathroom. He places one of my hands on the wall, stands in front of me, and tears off my G-string. I watch in shock as it falls to the floor.
“I have a handsome cock, and you need new underwear,” he says, walking out.
I sit down and pee, and damn, it feels good. As soon as I’m done, he comes back in holding a shirt. He gives me a slight nod to indicate for me to lift my arms.
“What are you doing with me?” I ask.
“Dressing you because you are hopeless.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
Kyson gets the shirt over my arms and head, then pulls it over my breasts until it covers my torso. He steps back and looks down at me; a part of me wants to cover myself but the other part says fuck it. Here is this man, that somehow, even in all the pain I am in, I can somehow still feel my stomach flutter when he touches me, and I hate it.
“Thirty,” he replies.
“Hmm…”
“What?” He hands me toilet paper, and I wince as I wipe. He motions for me to stand, and I do so on shaky legs. “You have a hairy bush,” he states.
“I haven’t found anyone good enough to shave it for.” I glance down. “My legs are hairy too. I need to buy a razor, which I can do now that I have a job.” I smile proudly.
“You don’t yet. Have you called Edward?” My eyes feel heavy, and my back starts to feel a little looser.
“No, but I will,” I say, yawning.
When I look down, I see I’m wearing a Harley Davidson shirt. “This yours?” I ask as he helps me back to the bed and instructs me to turn onto my stomach. I do as he says, and he places the ice pack on my back once again.
“Kyson?”
“What?”
“Do you plan to kill me?”
“I haven’t decided,” he says as my eyes struggle to stay open.
“What have you decided?” I ask.
“That you are trouble. A nuisance. And a pain in my ass.”
“Yeah, I think the same about you.”
“And you have a drinking problem.”
“I have a life problem. Sometimes that problem needs to be numbed.”
“What are you running from?” he asks.
“Him,” is all I manage to say before I can’t fight it anymore and sleep takes me.
Eleven
Kyson
Him? What does that even mean? I’ve got no fucking idea. I know from Kenzo’s search that she’s running from something, but I have no idea what. And she isn’t willingly share information.
I’m standing in the foyer of Pops’s house. He’s the man who trained us to be his own personal killing machines. He was a trainer for special ops but left to do what he does best—train killers, and we’re his first successful killers. So much so he didn’t need to find any others. He gave up training more and completely focused on us three. He’s money hungry as fuck, which only adds to his intense focus. I know he doesn’t like the fact that we don’t solely use him to get clients anymore, but he can’t do anything about it. Yes, he still brings us the occasional job, but it’s up to us if we choose to do it or not.
We were raised differently from a lot of other kids. The streets and each other were all we had. It was fine. We survived. And I think it made us stronger. But I think someone has told Pops I’ve been having feelings of wanting to leave, and it’s why he’s called me here today.
“How are you?” Pops asks, handing me a glass. I take it but don’t drink. He puts his own glass to his lips. “Let’s go into the sitting area. It’s just us. No one else is here.”
I nod and follow him. When he sits on one of his white sofas, I do the same opposite of him.
“You’ve been off.” That’s how he chooses to start, right.
“All my jobs have been completed to perfection,” I remind him.
“What about her?” He doesn’t have to say her name for me to know he’s talking about Kalilah.
“What about her?” I ask.
“Kenzo let it slip you didn’t kill her.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You know there is not to be any sort of evidence or loose ends. We have done a great job at keeping everything clean for this long, so why would you jeopardize that? For a woman?”
“Is this the real reason you called me over?” I ask, placing the drink down on the table between us. His gaze flicks to it, but he doesn’t say anything. “And leave her out of it. I have it handled.”
“Do you?” he asks.
“When have I not?”
“Kyson, out of the three of you, you are the one who talks to me the most. But you’ve been silent for some time now. Do I have to worry?” He leans in as he says the words with his eyebrow raised in question.
“I’m just working out how to be a better me.”
“What’s wrong with the ‘now’ you?” he bites back. “You are amazing at everything you do. You have a charisma about you that your brothers admire. Heck, even I admire it. So tell me, what’s wrong?” Pops is the closest thing to a father figure we have. I don’t even remember our real father, and as far as we are concerned, we have no other family. Which sits well with us—we don’t need much.